


Till the Stars Fall Out of the Sky

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Reunions, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post-Trespasser, spoilers for their romance only] </p><p>"Up the hill, there’s a light in the windows, and torches lit beside the door; the villa shines on the hilltop like a beacon in the settling dark. <i>Their</i> villa. They have more than hours, this time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Stars Fall Out of the Sky

Evening is falling when the Bull reaches the winding lane that leads up to their villa. _Their_ villa. The Bull still has to shake his and laugh a little at the thought. He leans a hand on one of the thin trees that nod and sway above the lane, and he smiles to himself. The sun sits low and red on the horizon, wreathed with clouds, leaving the shadows of the trees long across the pathway. Up the hill, there’s a light in the windows, and torches lit beside the door; the villa shines on the hilltop like a beacon in the settling dark. _Their_ villa. 

They have more than hours, this time. The last of the year’s business dealt with (and, if Dorian’s tone through the crystal was any indication, argued into the marble floor and back again), a long holiday was finally an affordable luxury. Bull left the Chargers in a tavern in Hunter Fell, ducking through the door frame to a chorus of “Say hi to your husband!” and “Chief’s gone domestic, look at him!” (“I’ll show you domestic,” he’d growled, turning back around and dragging Krem to the nearest open field. Yeah, it cost the Bull a few hours on the road, but Krem will still be feeling it by the time Bull meets back up with them, and it’d been worth it to leave laughing.) 

This late in the year, the flowers on the veranda and coiling up the stone pillars of the entry have long since bloomed and wilted, but Bull smiles to see the traces of them anyway as he draws up the lane. One day, one day if they’re lucky…

Dorian’s at the entrance before the Bull even calls, and even from a distance, he’s radiant. Firelight has always suited his skin, but now it catches on the gold in his robes and at his ears and fingers, and there, like some kind of vision, he glows. And does it matter that that sounds ridiculous? Every memory the Bull tries to conjure alone in his dusty inn rooms and cold tents to match the sound of Dorian’s voice pales in this moment; he’s brighter, better, more beautiful for the fact that here, at last, when Bull reaches for him, he’s not reaching into the dark. 

“It’s about time,” Dorian says against the Bull’s smile as Bull’s arms engulf him. It might be embarrassing, how urgently close he pulls Dorian against his chest, if Dorian’s hands weren’t every bit as tight on the Bull’s shoulders. The first kiss is fast and firm, relief and reassurance--alive, alive, real and here and alive. Dorian pulls back from it with a smile, and what can the Bull do but laugh and lift him into the air, spinning him once around just to see the way his eyes light up in startled delight before he squirms away.

“You absolute brute!” Dorian says, breathless, and steps immediately back into the Bull’s arms. Bull just laughs, letting Dorian’s fingers curl around his horns and guide him back into another kiss. This one lingers, pressed from one to the other of them and back again in earnest, a low heat beneath like a promise, like a declaration. 

“Hello,” Dorian says when they part, whispered into the inch of space between them. His smile softens, eyes lidded but bright, and there, _there_ he is. His hair is longer now, Bull notices, curling to his ears, though Bull can see he’s kept the sides shaved down. There are lines--faint, but there--creeping deep into the corners of his eyes, the bend of his brow. The Bull doesn’t doubt he’ll find a scar or two he doesn’t want to see once he gets his hands under those robes.  
He hums his acknowledgement when his eyes wander back to Dorian’s. He’s surveying the Bull, too; Bull sees his eyes linger on the newest scar on Bull’s left side, closed and painless but still yet to fade. He meets the Bull’s gaze, and Bull just quirks his lips before kissing Dorian again. His hands slide down Dorian’s back and come to rest low on his hips. This kiss dissolves with Dorian laughing and swatting lightly at Bull’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes, there’s time enough for _that_ , you insatiable lecher,” he says, stepping back. 

“Love it when you sweet talk me,” Bull says, dipping his head to follow Dorian inside. 

“Safe journey, I trust?” Dorian says.

“Uneventful,” Bull says, beginning to pull his axe from his shoulders. “I’ll take it. Left the boys at the Dragon’s Head.”

“In Hunter Fell? Wasn’t that the one where Rocky set one of their ale barrels aflame? I thought surely they’d never let him in again.”

Bull laughs. “Nah, that one was outside Cumberland. This one’s survived a Blight, I think they’ll handle Rocky.”

“Well, I suppose there are worse places to spend a holiday.”

Dorian’s been busy. There’s a tapestry on the wall now, and a rug beneath Bull’s feet. To the right, a bench that wasn’t there before sits up against the wall. He takes this in with old habit--a quick, sweeping gaze, obstacles noted, potential makeshift weapons, and every exit--and toes off his boots. He leans his axe beside the bench, then Dorian takes his travelling cloak and hangs it near the door. He starts to lead the Bull toward what Bull vaguely remembers as the direction of the kitchen, and gets all of two steps before the Bull’s hands are back on his hips, the fine silk of his robe pressed warm to Bull’s chest.

“Oh for pity’s sake, is that all you can think of?” Dorian grumbles. He tilts his head anyway as Bull presses a kiss to his neck, nuzzling into the skin there.

“You’re all I can think of,” Bull murmurs against him, and smiles when he’s rewarded with a shiver.

“Naturally,” Dorian says, leaning back into Bull’s embrace. His hands come to rest on top of Bull’s for a moment. Then he pats Bull’s knuckles and turns gently to face him instead. “But at least let us eat something before you tie me to the bed for the next week and have your wicked way with me.”

“Oh I intended to eat something,” Bull says, and oh _shit_ , he’d nearly forgotten how much better it was to see that heat spark in Dorian’s eyes rather than wait to hear it in sighs and moans through the crystal’s thrum. “And that last part sounded a lot more like a request than a complaint.”

“A demand, rather,” Dorian says, grinning. “The distance builds certain expectations, and I will have them satisfied.”

“Shit,” Bull growls. His hands sink low again, palming at Dorian’s ass through his robes. “I _love_ when you get bossy.” 

The heady pleasure of watching Dorian’s resolve crumble under the Bull’s hands, his mouth, even his words alone, is glorious and intoxicating, and the Bull will have his fill of every minute of it, later. But there’s also something electrifying to Dorian taking charge, to letting the swift and quick-changing current of his whims pull the Bull under with him. In the end, whatever means lead to Dorian beneath him, above him, all around him and consuming him, sound perfect to the Bull. 

Dorian lets Bull pull him close by the thighs, and sighs when the answering roll of his hips brushes him against Bull at just the right angle. He leans up and nips at Bull’s lip, letting his teeth drag slow and light across it, and Bull doesn’t hold back his groan.

They never make it to the kitchen.

Bull carries him up the stairs with Dorian’s thighs wrapped tight around his waist, Dorian’s mouth sliding hot and insistent against his. Dorian’s fingers dig into the base of his skull and he bites into Bull’s lip again, harder this time, and the aroused shudder it sends through Bull’s limbs nearly weakens them. He stumbles on the top stair, barely catching himself in time to keep Dorian aloft. Dorian scrabbles for a grip on his shoulders, clinging a moment before Bull regains his balance. Their eyes meet, and then they both burst into laughter. Dorian throws his head back, his growing hair fanning behind him for a moment, and damn, he’s fucking beautiful. The Bull lays a breathless kiss against the line of his throat, and Dorian’s laughter flows into a delighted moan. The Bull feels the hum of it against his lips (and oh _fuck_ , it’s a thousand times better than the warped sound of it in the crystal) and he smiles into Dorian’s skin, kissing it again, open and wet. 

Bull has half a mind to have him right here, to just press him up against the wall and peel away the silk and cloth between them, swallow him down until he sobs the Bull’s name and clutches the Bull’s horns, frantic and panting and perfect. But Dorian made his demands, and Bull’s arms are aching after the long journey, and the bed is new and soft. Dorian sounded so proud of himself when he boasted of the size of the one he’d found, and it would be a far cry better than the mound of pillows they’d made due with the last time, so close after Dorian bought the place. Bull adjusts his grip and carries Dorian the rest of the way down the hall, stealing teasing kisses as he goes, Dorian’s laughter ringing in between.

The bed _is_ big. He sees it over Dorian’s shoulder, wide and plush with a dusky pink patterned quilt spread over it. And there’s a dark wood bed frame that arches up into an elaborately carved headboard inlaid with a geometric pattern of dawnstone. Bull’s distracted enough by it that Dorian pulls back and twists to follow his gaze. Then he looks back to fix the Bull an almost tentative smile.

Bull bends at the knee to set Dorian back on his feet and survey the rest of the room properly. Furniture matching the headboard fills the walls, all with the same dawnstone handles and accents. Candles glow softly on the dresser and across the hearth, where a fire already blazes. 

“I took the liberty of insisting on a few things in the design,” Dorian says. It takes the Bull a moment to realize he’s gesturing to the headboard. Dorian steps closer to it, hooking his fingers through a hole near the top with a line of dawnstone splitting through it. Bull sees two below it at equal distance, and a matching set on the other side, all woven seamlessly into the design.

“They’re sturdy,” Dorian says, flashing him a grin. “I made certain.”

Bull swallows around the growing lump in his throat. The first thing he manages to say is, “But you hate pink.”

Dorian’s lips quirk. “Not when it…” 

He glances away, pressing something back with the line of his lips. Then he settles on, “Not when it’s somewhere other than those hideous trousers.” But his eyes are soft when they meet the Bull’s again. “It’s certainly a great deal more tasteful when applied with care and artistry. And at any rate, I’ll hardly have time to complain if you’re busy tying me to it.”

The Bull chuckles. Then his eye sweeps around the room once more, and his throat feels tight all over again. He slowly drops to the edge of the bed. “Kadan… come here.”

Dorian does, stepping between the Bull’s spread knees to drape his arms around Bull’s shoulders. “Is that a sign of approval?”

Dorian’s a scant few inches taller than the Bull like this, so Bull only needs to lean a little forward to press a kiss to the bit of Dorian’s sternum peeking out from beneath his robes. He breathes out against him there, eye falling shut. 

“You’re amazing,” he says.

“True,” Dorian says. Gentle fingers slide along the Bull’s scalp, stroking the sensitive spot where flesh meets horn. “And it’s not as if I can afford to replace it if you don’t like it.”

“What happened to all that ‘shitting gold’ business Sera talked about?” Bull rests his chin against Dorian’s chest, grinning up at him.

“Apparently it’s gone rather out of fashion while I was away,” Dorian says. “Just what I get for dallying in the south, it seems.”

“Poor you,” Bull says, shutting his eye again just to feel the movement of Dorian’s fingers for a moment. “I love it, kadan.”

“Good,” Dorian says. His hands move, lifting the Bull’s jaw, and Bull leans up to meet him. It's a slow but steadying kiss this time, and it leaves the Bull a little dizzy with more than affection. 

He starts to pull back to tease Dorian about thanking him properly, but Dorian follows after him, drawing him back into another kiss. Dorian climbs up onto the bed to straddle the Bull’s lap, trusting the Bull’s hands to guide him as he lets this kiss melt into the next, and the one after.

It hits the Bull then, his hands sliding across the silk at Dorian’s thighs, just how long it’s really been. Long enough for Dorian to see all of this furniture built and transported and placed. Long enough for Dorian’s hair to brush low on his ears. Long enough that the hard muscle of Dorian’s legs and stomach have softened, just a little. And the wide stretch of days between then and now crash together all at once, like a turbulent sea. The longing ache he fought down at the sound of Dorian’s voice in his ear every night comes snarling back, slamming into the Bull’s gut hard enough to make his hands tighten; it’s a startlingly sharp moment, when “not enough, not enough, not enough” becomes “finally, finally, _finally_ ,” when the reality of Dorian here and real and warm against him leaves him gasping against Dorian’s lips.

Dorian pulls back a little to look at him, and that’s almost worse. His eyes are lidded again and heavy, but there’s a bit of candlelight catching them anyway, warming flecks of amber into them. His lips, kiss-swollen and wet, turn up at the corners (knowing, gentle) and yeah, Varric would tease the hell out of him, but the Bull has never been more in love than right now. 

Dorian’s gaze turns thoughtful as he regards the Bull, and his fingers move to trace the scar sloping down from beneath the Bull’s eyepatch. “I’ve changed my mind, I think.”

“Hmm?” the Bull raises an eyebrow, but thinks, _Shit, anything._

Dorian smiles. “I think I’ll have you at my mercy instead.” His hands drop to the Bull’s belt, beginning to unfasten it.

“What’re you planning?” the Bull says, fond, curious, as Dorian drops the belt away behind him, then reaches for Bull’s trousers.

“Oh, it’s too filthy for words,” Dorian says, coaxing the Bull to lift his hips. “I blush with shame just thinking of it.”

He slides the Bull’s trousers down his thighs and plucks them free of his feet. He flashes the Bull a grin as he stands. “Well, if you insist. First, I’m going to give you a terribly wonderful massage, like the deviant I am. Then, when I’ve wrung every mile of that trip here out of you, I’m going to take care of you.” He held a hand up.” No, no, don’t try to warn me such filth is far beyond redemption, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it.”

Bull laughs. “Dorian Pavus, renegade romantic. The ‘Vints might never forgive you.” 

“I’d surely be stoned in the streets if they knew,” Dorian says. His hands fall to the ties of his robe. “Romance, the dirtiest secret of all. All true, sadly, but let’s not think of that now.” 

Dorian sheds the magister in inches when they come here. First the smile, sliding almost imperceptibly from the calculated, calibrated political grin--the small hint of teeth behind lips pulled taut--to something softer, something that warms his eyes when they come to rest on the Bull. Then his shoulders ease, and once his hands reach the Bull, the touch is slow, and gentle, even when the Bull grabs him up and swings him around like he had tonight. Then it's the clothes, all the swathes of black silk lined in gold, or green, or whatever the fashion is. And yeah, watching that go is good, watching the heat flare in Dorian's eyes as it he makes it a show, makes it slow, makes Bull wait for it. Yeah, that's good. But the Bull likes it better when it's all on the floor, when the robes and the miles and the magister are gone and it's just Dorian, nothing between them, nothing to stop them, nothing but Dorian's skin under the Bull's hands, Dorian’s body in the Bull’s arms, and Dorian's breath catching against the Bull's temple. That's the moment the Bull knows he's home.

“Gonna take care of me, huh?” the Bull whispers against Dorian’s ear, pressing a kiss beneath it. He hooks his hands around Dorian’s legs.

“If you’ve no objections, of course,” Dorian says, lips sliding along Bull’s temple as he speaks.

“Mmm. Gonna fuck me?” the Bull asks, hands climbing back up over Dorian’s ass. Dorian’s own hands pause their wandering, and he tilts his head back to look at Bull.

“Do you want me to?” he says. Bull catches the way his eyes go dark at the thought, and he growls a little, just to watch them go darker still. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. “Fuck. Yeah. I’ll take you up on that massage, but… later. I want to feel you, need to…” He trails off in a growl, lets the low brush of his fingers and the conspicuous twitch of his cock--heavy and slowly waking between his legs--say the rest.

Dorian watches him a moment longer, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then he smiles. “Whatever you wish, amatus.”

And really, is there anywhere better to be than sprawled on the array of pillows stacked three deep at the headboard with Dorian three (fingers) deep inside of him? (The Bull will tease him about those pillows later--this many for one bed? Dorian will insist they’re decorative and classy and _honestly, Bull, I even made them pink_ , and the Bull will laugh and roll him into them and fuck him with one of them shoved beneath his hips. Later, later. They have time for later.) Dorian slides his free hand along Bull’s straining thighs, spread wide just for him. He palms the Bull’s cock, curls his hand around the width of it just as he curls his fingers inside the Bull, just enough to make him groan. Fuck, he’s so… he’s so…

“You’re perfect,” the Bull says, his head falling back against the pillows, horns nearly snagging on them. “Ah, kadan! Fuck…”

Dorian hums, his lips quirking into a smile and he gives the Bull a long, firm stroke from base to crown, nice and slow. It’s _good_. The Bull cranes his head up again to watch. From this angle, the candlelight catches more of Dorian’s skin, and he’s practically glowing with it again, like he was outside. And yeah, that’s more romance novel Varric shit, to keep thinking of Dorian’s skin like that, of fire in his eyes, but fuck if it isn’t true. 

“Love is a bit soft,” the Bull had told Varric once over their second pint. Dorian had probably rolled his eyes five times in one minute listening to Varric try to make a story of them. “It's all starlight and gentle blushes. But "passion" leaves your fingers sore from clawing the sheets.” 

Bull claws at the sheets now as Dorian’s fingers working in him, catching all the right places to keep the Bull gasping. But it’s the look in Dorian’s eye as he watches the Bull writhe that’s leaving Bull breathless. Yeah, it’s passion. It’s always been passion. They’re passionate men who argued their way passionately into bed, and then fucked with the same passion, the same heat. Love? Well. That came later. And maybe it _was_ starlight through a broken roof above an old tavern, and gentle blushes settling on sex-soaked skin late at night. Maybe it _is_ starlight out the window of the next inn the Chargers find themselves in, where the Bull tries to match the constellations to the ones Dorian’s voice tells him he sees from his rooms in Minrathous. Maybe it is the gentle blushes he tries to imagine on Dorian’s cheeks when he whispers sweet, secret things into the crystal while they both drift off to sleep. Maybe. What does the Bull know about love? But he knows Dorian, knows the look in his eye, the touch of his hand around the Bull’s cock, the way he lets go to smooth his palm over the curve of the Bull’s stomach instead, the way he presses a kiss to the side of the Bull’s knee as his fingers slide away at last and he reaches again for the oil. He knows that he’d travel a lot more than a hundred miles just to be here, in this room, with this man, for a lot less time than he deserves, than they both deserve. 

Maybe it’s just in the way they fit together, wit to word to mind, interweaving as easily as their fingers when Dorian’s fold through Bull’s. Dorian presses their hands into the pillows as every blessed inch of his cock presses into the Bull, until their hips press together. Dorian hovers above him, exhaling sharply as he sinks home, and oh fuck, yes, _home_. They are, they are, and maybe that’s it, right there. 

“Yeah,” the Bull groans, his free hand grabbing Dorian’s hip with a ragged breath. “Fuck.”

“Amatus,” Dorian whispers, squeezing their fingers, “ _Kaffas_ , this feels…”

“Yeah,” the Bull says. He knows.

He’ll take this moment with him when he goes: Dorian, glistening with sweat, hair falling around his face, eyes alight and beautiful, leaning close enough to whisper again, “Amatus. Oh, Bull.” 

He pauses to drop kisses along the Bull’s chest, and let the Bull adjust to the feeling of his cock. His kisses journey higher as the draws his hips back slowly. He cranes to meet the Bull’s lips as he slides back in again, swallowing down the Bull’s moan. 

But the Bull has to break the kiss to gasp as Dorian slides back again. He’s going slower than he needs to, slower than the Bull needs, but the Bull can hardly complain when all the matters is Dorian inside of him, taking care of him, as he said. The hand Bull has gripping Dorian’s hip drifts lower, pressing into the skin where Dorian’s ass meets his leg. Dorian grunts and nips at the Bull’s shoulder, earning himself a low laugh. 

“Thought of this, of you…” the Bull says. “On the road.”

“Tell me,” Dorian breathes, licking at the skin he’d bitten and rocking into Bull. 

“Ah, yeah… I love your cock. I wanted… shit, I wanted to feel you…see you. And then...I kept thinking of that one night-- _ah_ \--in Trevis.”

(Dorian sprawled on a bearskin rug in front of the fire. His thighs tensing on either side of the Bull’s head. The Bull’s mouth around his cock, hot and wet. The phenomenal heat of Dorian all around him, and the fingers clenched around his horn. Dorian pulling him down after, his arms tight around the Bull’s neck, the Bull’s forehead pressed to his chest. The Bull resting on top of him. The sound of Dorian’s heartbeat slowing. Later, in bed, Dorian fucking him slow, sprawled over the Bull’s back, dropping kisses down his spine. The Bull fucking Dorian against the headboard in the morning, the wood rapping against the wall with every thrust of the Bull’s hips.) 

Dorian hums and smiles, rewarding Bull with a particularly delicious thrust of his hips. Then there’s a moment where his brow creases, just a little, and the Bull knows his thoughts have shifted to the long sea of late nights, early mornings, and stolen moments (hours in the villa, a minute to whisper “good luck” in the crystal, or “good night,” or “be safe”) that carried them here, in waves, to this, with only their voices in the dark to guide them back together. Bull doesn’t say it. They both know how long it’s been, how long it will be again, and Dorian hates sentimental confessions even as much as he craves the meat of them. But it’s not that Dorian doesn’t want them, and it’s sure as shit not that he doesn’t feel them. It’s the reminder, the one neither of them wants, that time is never theirs to have. 

Dorian cradles the Bull’s jaw, and pulls him up into a hungry kiss. In the end, words don’t fit in the breath of space between their lips, the moment’s inch between their hips when Dorian pulls back, or the gaps between their fingers just before they slide back together again (they can’t seem to keep them apart). There aren’t words for the way Bull’s skin sings with Dorian’s touch or the sounds Bull drinks from Dorian’s lips. 

For their sheer fucking _need_.

But words tumble from him anyway when Dorian finds his rhythm, driving into the Bull with purpose. Their fingers fall back together against the sheets, and Dorian lets the Bull anchor him as thrusts forward, making the Bull writhe once more beneath him.

“Oh, fuck, _kadan_ , you’re so fucking good, ah, _more_...”

Dorian breathes out a laugh, but then he’s moving faster, smooth and glorious. He drops his head down, shoulders hunching. the Bull squeezes his thighs around him. 

“Dorian… shit… let me… let me see you. Look at me, please.”

Bull disentangles a hand and lifts it to Dorian’s chin, and Dorian lets him raise it. His hair falls into his eyes, damp at the ends, swaying as he moves. Bull brushes it back, brushing his fingers through the strands and cupping his hand there, against Dorian’s head.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” the Bull says. And it says something about how far gone Dorian is in the moment that he doesn’t have a reply. He just smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to the Bull’s palm.

“Amatus,” Dorian breathes there, then seems to remember the Bull’s request, raising his eyes again.

No, words will never be enough for this. But Dorian manages to say a lot with that one.

“Fuck me, Dorian,” the Bull says. 

Dorian thrusts harder--shit, _yes_ \--and turns his head to kiss his way up Bull’s thumb. He wraps his lips around the tip, keeping his eyes on the Bull’s as he runs his tongue over the skin, then sucks it down. The Bull groans, growing louder when he feels Dorian’s free hand trace the same path up Bull’s cock. He swipes his tongue along Bull’s thumb again, in time with the swipe of his own thumb across the tip of Bull’s cock. Bull moans and tries to thrust up into Dorian’s hand. Dorian gives a wicked chuckle low in his throat, releasing the Bull’s thumb. He stokes the Bull’s cock slowly, maddeningly, a counterpoint to the pounding pace of his thrusts. 

“Fuck!” Bull cries. “Ah, fuck!” 

Dorian shifts his hips, driving up against the Bull’s prostate, and the Bull throws his head back with a raspy groan, knocking a pillow to the floor with his horn. Still, Dorian keeps his hand light on the Bull’s cock, teasing him right up until the Bull feels like he might just fucking _explode_.

“Dorian...kadan...please.”

Dorian smirks, and his grip grows firm. The Bull sighs with relief. Dorian strokes him in time with his thrusting, and the Bull’s hips move automatically to meet him, driving up into his hand.

“Come for me, amatus,” Dorian pants. He’s unraveling as fast as the Bull is. “Oh yes, I want to feel you.” 

They move furiously, desperately against each other. The Bull grabs the back of Dorian’s neck and clings there as he follows the surge of his pleasure and roars with the crest of it, coming all over Dorian’s hand and his own stomach.

“Yes… oh yes,” Dorian says, his hips slowly as he eases the Bull through it with the slide of his palm. Finally, Bull nudges his hand away, and Dorian gets ahold of his hips instead. 

“Come on, kadan,” the Bull says. And Dorian resumes his pace, driving into him again, following the Bull in moments with one last frantic thrust of his hips. 

“Amatus!” 

He collapses against the Bull’s chest. The Bull gathers him there, one hand tangling in his hair again, the other smoothing down his back. They rest against each other. 

Night has fallen properly outside, and the Bull can see the sky over the plants that line the wide veranda off to one side of the room. The fire is waning, but the candles still burn strong. Dorian will complain of the chill soon, an excuse to burrow deeper into the Bull’s arms, even if he doesn’t need one.

“Welcome home, amatus,” Dorian says eventually, darting a glance up at Bull.

The Bull smiles, carding his fingers through Dorian’s hair. He has been many things--Ashkaari, Hissrad, the Iron Bull, a long series of numbers--and lived many places--Par Vollen, Seheron, Ferelden, a dirty tent in the wilderness--but never has he had the gift of person and place in one, the name that is identity and center altogether. All he wants, all he needs, all he is, all he hopes to be. 

Amatus.

Beloved.

 _Home_.

“Perhaps now you’ll consent to some food?” Dorian says, and the Bull laughs.

“Think I remember something in there about a massage, too,” the Bull says.

“I suppose I am a man of my word,” says Dorian, shifting to rest his arms on Bull’s chest. “We must continue smashing my good reputation to bits, after all.”

“Maybe I ought to feed you fruit straight out of the bowl,” the Bull says. 

“You perverted fiend,” Dorian laughs, stretching up the Bull’s chest for a kiss. 

“Or I could just keep you right here,” the Bull says when they part. “We could stay in bed for days, like you demanded.”

“Only because I know it will happen one way or the other,” Dorian says.

“Guess I just can’t get enough of you,” the Bull says. 

Dorian smiles. “Good.”

It is.


End file.
